


Don't Ask Questions

by ryanthepowerbottomguy



Series: Ticket to Hell [4]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Gen, Implied animal abuse, Referenced violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:26:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryanthepowerbottomguy/pseuds/ryanthepowerbottomguy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray wakes up at 2am to a text message from Haywood that reads: <i>come pick me up. don’t ask questions.</i></p>
<p>Or, in which Ray finds out that their masked murderer isn’t quite as cold-hearted as everyone seems to think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Ask Questions

Ray wakes up at 2am to a text message from Haywood that reads:  _come pick me up. don’t ask questions_ _._  and a set of coordinates, because Haywood is a freak and can’t give directions like a normal person. 

Ray punches the coordinates into google maps as he’s pulling his pants on, and discovers that Haywood is up in the middle of fucking nowhere in Blaine County. Ray scrubs at his face and scratches his stubble as he contemplates how long it’s going to take to get out there. He grabs himself a red bull on the way out just in case he gets stuck in traffic, and shoots a text back to Haywood:  _on my way_.

The drive out is quiet for once—not many people are out on the highway this late at night, though downtown is still bustling and brightly-lit—and Ray checks his phone periodically to make sure he’s still going the right way. The road he finally turns off onto is dirt and gravel, and Ray spares a thought that maybe he should have driven something more suited to off-road instead of his fucking panto.

Haywood is standing on the side of the road at exactly where he said he would be, in the dusty front yard of a rundown house. In the headlights, blood gleams on the skull mask. He is holding something in his arms, but Ray can’t make out what it is.

Ray climbs out of the car and surveys the damage. There aren’t any visible bodies, which means Haywood must have taken care of them already. Nice of him to clean up after himself. He’s fucking covered in blood, though, and Ray sighs before he notices something.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” he asks. Haywood is wearing his unzipped jacket, but he’s bare-chested underneath.

Haywood tilts his head and shifts uncomfortably, and Ray suddenly remembers that Haywood demanded no questions. But it’s after two in the fucking morning, and Ray doesn’t really care at this point.

“Whatever,” Ray says, running his fingers through his hair. “Take off that shit and throw it in the back. You’re not getting blood on my seats.”

“Right,” Haywood says, and Ray gets behind the wheel as Haywood goes around to the back of the car. There’s some shuffling, and then a minute later Haywood gets into the passenger seat in his boxers and socks. He’s still holding the bundle, and now in the lights of the car Ray can see that it’s Haywood’s t-shirt.

When Ray pulls back onto the road, the bundle shifts and whines. Ray’s eyebrows go up and he glances at Haywood out of the corner of his eye. Haywood is making soft hushing noises, barely audible over the sound of the road, and he’s petting the cloth-wrapped bundle with one big hand.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Ray says.

In response, Haywood flips back the cloth. In his lap is a dog—a puppy, and a really small one at that. It doesn’t look too healthy, but Ray doesn’t know a lot about dogs.

“That’s a dog,” Ray points out, trying to reconcile the image he has of Haywood with the man sitting in Ray’s car in his underwear, stroking a puppy.

“Mmhm,” Haywood agrees. “Think it’s a beagle.”

Ray isn’t sure he wants to ask where the hell the dog came from, but it’s not like Haywood is going to volunteer that information himself. Having a conversation with Haywood can be like pulling teeth, especially since he has that fucking mask on all the time.

“Where did you get the dog?” Ray asks anyway.

Haywood shrugs. “The previous owner wasn’t treating it right. So I decided to take it off his hands for him.”

Ray glances over and squints at the blood in Haywood’s hair. He wonders how literally Haywood interpreted  _take it off his hands_.

“Relatedly,” Haywood says, “do you know a vet that might be awake this late?”


End file.
